Implosion
by SparklingDogfish
Summary: Spy vs. Spy fiction, following the life and low times of the White Spy. An inital and introductory chapter to a story and character. White Spy has had it rough for some time, and things are slipping faster than he can find cares to give about them. Riddled with self-destructive undertones countered by human nature doing what it does (trying to survive). T for language and feels.


Sometimes he truly hated his Embassy. Despised their policies, because he didn't give a rat's ass less about appearance and company professionalism. Loathed his superiors, those fat and shadowy puppet-masters pulling his strings tipped with fishhooks. Hell, he even hated his secretary, attractive as any other, and just as useless. And yet, no matter how much bullshit they threw his way, how ridiculous their demands were, or how impossible their deadlines were, he would never detest them quite as much as that of his enemy. If the White Embassy was tough on training and protocol, then he could only imagine what the Black Embassy had for structure.

And really, it just boiled down to he was sick of losing.

It enraged him that loss couldn't even be a personal affair, not in his line of work. Some, if not most days, he simply wanted to go to the pub and get soused. To carelessly drink his pains and losses and everything shitty out of his life. Maybe he could finally forget the past three months of complete failure and humiliation for a while; failure in his line of work was often humiliating in and of itself, but it wasn't just your failure. Oh no. You were strung up and castigated by your overlords. The real humiliation was prostrating himself again and again, pleading for another chance, and he didn't even know why they kept giving them to him. He'd just keep failing. He was familiar with the cycle now, and almost welcomed it. Sooner or later they would have enough. Or maybe he would. Sooner or later, they wouldn't give anymore chances. Maybe he'd get or take a chance. Sooner or later, he'd be free, one way or another.

The thought of a strong drink crosses his mind again, as he snaps back to the present. He couldn't predict the future. Things were bound to change sometime. You can't just fail all the time.

So he tells himself.

He sticks out his tongue childishly, and again refocuses to the present time. In his line of work, you can't ever be careless. _"Not now, and not in the future," _ he notes. The papers in front of him mock him silently, another set of warrants that no one would ever read. Search warrants and a death certificate that was as pointless as his existence. He could feel a physical weight over his cubicle, crushing him down into paste, until his insides mixed with the damp ink of his pen - the pressure of his peers, no, his overseers. He had few peers here. Only gods above him that held more power than even his favorite revolver, something that fit more comfortably in his hand and delivered tremendous kick. And these gods were crushing him inside and out, squeezing out his talents and lacing the tube with the deadly poison of money. That was why he still did this, wasn't it? The payback was exceptional. Or, it had been at one time. But that was back when the tube was still full and had much to offer. Now the effort exerted to extract even the smallest daub of use was barely worth a paycheck that the tube could survive on.

It was just enough to cover rent and get some good, strong alcohol.

Blinking into focus again, he slumps forward into his hands, rubbing his eyes vigorously until he feels they might start oozing out of their sockets. Then he stops and shoves away the worthless papers, into a worthless paper tray, where they will be picked up by the worthless secretary. He doesn't really care what worthless junk happens to them after she gets her slinky, well-manicured hands on them. Maybe they were incinerated. They probably were. He imagines the roaring inferno, relating it to the cold fire that rested in one's throat after a few sips of vodka. A little more and jagged heat would spread through both mind and body, burning ones earthly ties and immolating life and responsibility. He sits quietly, visualizing his body burning away, his well-pressed suit charring from white to grey to black to nothing, then his skin, and draws out the oddly pleasing thought of his flesh being eaten away by the liberating flames. "_Alcohol makes a proper blaze," _he thinks. He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his lips again, the thought of his eyes popping and splattering with the heat shaking him out of his thoughts one last time. He puts his tongue away and stands up.

Things were going to change today.

The executive meeting, though boring as hell, was not as predictable as he had predicted. In fact, it went very differently from what he expected, and more like he had been hoping. As he sat in mock-polite silence, internally he wanted nothing more than to stand up and shout, "_What in Satan's anus have you been waiting on this for!?_" He concealed a smug grin when his suspension slip was signed off unanimously. He buried mocking laughter when some of the corporate talking heads expressed their "condolences" and "dissatisfaction" with the decision, and adopted contriteness, surprise, a touch of humility and determination to return stronger. He couldn't have cared less about his equally suspended "benefits", because he hadn't had those for a long while now. He expressed semi-genuine gratitude for the paycheck extension he would be granted for half of his suspension period, something that did admittedly surprise him. It didn't change his thoughts of his overlords, but it gave him a small seed of determination to make the well-needed break count for something other than how many bottles of booze he could pile up in his livingroom.

Although the paycheck extension would cover quite a few of those.

Walking home, for the first time in months, he feels alive again. His breath comes easily, and he feels no concern about his surroundings. He wouldn't have cared even if there was a certain adversary hanging about in an alley, waiting to waylay and murder him. His gait is nearly jaunty, his overcoat swishing loosely behind him. The pistol he carries in his internal breast pocket seems unnecessary and weighty, thumping occasionally into his ribcage. His heartbeat does not staccato in counterpoint to its swing as it usually did, but follows its own rhythm. As he walks, he purposely ignores the gaping mouths of alleyways, deciding if someone is within intending to assault him, then he would prefer to be unprepared and relaxed. However, he cannot control his reflexes entirely, and as memories surface unasked he flinches as he relives the frigid bite of steel between his ribs and the intesification of gravity as the wind and sense is knocked out of him. He tells himself off, his tongue poking lopsided between his lips as he passes in front a number of bars that normally held a smoky, dirty allure to him. The whine of jukebox music reaches his ears, picking him up out of a gutter flowing with fresh blood and placing him back on the sidewalk, head down in the evening with his tongue slightly out. Neon signs hiss and shriek at him, vying for attention and beaming sultry nothings to his senses. They curl out tendrils of smoke and alcoholic reek, trying to draw him in, just for a few hours, baby. No harm, no foul, and maybe we could spend the night talking somewhere quiet. Why don'tcha think about it, baby, give it a mull over a cold drink. He retracts his tonguetip and settles his shoulders back, striding out to his destination of desire.

He reaches his flat without even thinking how he got there.

He immediately goes to his bedroom, discarding the formal suit he wore to Hell everyday, leaving pieces of it along the way. He stands briefly, indecisively, before a grimy window, slowly savoring the many senses of the term "freedom." It had been a long time since he had felt the security to stand nearby a window for any period of time. Windows were dangerous, an easy glance into the private lives and matters of others. A shot that was just a scope away could easily shatter those lives. He stands for another moment, relishing the thought that he was no longer one of the poor fucks that had to feel so worried about something benign as a window. A window was a window. Whether it saw into private lives or private times didn't matter - it was a two way view, and those who saw could also be seen. He didn't see anyone on the adjacent roofline of the low-slung, lowlife building on the opposite side of the street. But maybe there was a growing shadow there behind its peak, an unnatural and elongated kind... He dismisses the idea, but darts forward to his bathroom doorway nonetheless. An unsettling image of his body flashes past the mirror, then backtracks more cautiously to peer at itself through the dust and water spots. A mirror acted as a different sort of window; a window to oneself. He hadn't had the security to stand in front of one of these for a long while either. He observes an overall air of dullness he was sure hadn't been there half a year ago. His hair falls limply over his forehead, now unchecked by thoroughly applied gel, and seeming more silver than its past, familiar pale blonde. Even his eyes, focusing poorly at his reflection through the thick dust screen, show nothing of the vitality he used to think they had. A hand strays across his body, finding little to have changed in structure, but much to have gone sour in state. He tries to manually un-tense his stiff muscles, starting at his shoulders and working down, but to no result save that he felt somewhat awkward. The end image, warped slightly by the cheap product, sends a self-righteous ripple of disgust through his mind, and he departs its unkind honesty.

Laying uncomfortably on his unmade bed, he ponders what will happen in the few months. He was suspended for a full quarter, something he wasn't wholly sure how to feel about. He was glad it was a suspension instead of a termination. Terminations in his profession were sometimes... messy. He was also glad of the repurposed severance package they had allocated to him. It was unexpected and bordered on non-asshole behaviour. Fortunately it would cover rent, grocery, and likely some other small and necessary expenses; unfortunately it was limited and he would have to pick up something to make it through the last month and half of suspension. But he could figure that out later, for the time being, it would get him through a much-needed period of rest and nothingness, most likely induced by strong liquor and a relatively low caloric intake.

He frowns. Something was off about that statement. He couldn't drop off the cliff of rational existence entirely, into the abyss... could he?

_"Nothingness? But isn't that what you wanted all along? The quiet and selfish application of nothing? No frustration, no humiliation, no bowing and scraping to the All Powerful Assholes At the Top? That there is your freedom, and anyone who wants to get in the way of it be damned. You've put in enough work for those pigs, and might well be happy you're alive to contemplate it now. This here is a prime Opportunity to get out once and for all, without all the hassle of a proper termination. You can chase your personal freedom - Nothingness - from here on out."_

But even as it crosses his mind, he shuts it out, allowing his better, or more motivated, nature to come through for him. Of course it was what he wanted. He just needed a break, is all. But - and it was a solid, absolute kind of _but -_ He was serious about coming back stronger. He still needed a job, and a paycheck, and a purpose. Maybe not now, but soon, because he wasn't the type of person who'd just sit around waiting for things to happen to or for him. He had every intention of chasing down his personal freedom, but that didn't have to take place _right now_. At the moment, he would take the days as they came, for a little while. Perhaps a couple weeks, maybe a bit longer, but then he would pick himself up from whatever hole he ended digging himself into, and he would dig himself right back out. He'd go back to training at the Embassy, just like the "inconspicuous" sticky-note on his suspension slip had advised him to do. He'd take up some kind of part time job to make ends meet before he returned. He had plenty of talents, after all, and could certainly pick up a job in town. No, this wasn't the time to dive headlong into the deep end. At the same time, his other side reminded him gently, he felt more than comfortable wading in the shallows. Hell, he might even drift out the middle for a little while, but stay close to the edge.

He rolls onto his side, almost immediately shifting back as a broken box spring digs into his hip. Well... some things wouldn't change so quickly. Looking back, the day has been little more than a blur to him, and all while stone cold sober. He nestles carefully into his sheets, trying not to think when was the last time he actually slept in them. As he slowly comes to terms with the rough cotton fibre attaching itself to his bare skin, he relaxes his body and mind to the furious hum of distant electronic devices downstairs, outside and across the street. Things would work out, in the end. He had a plan, and he just had to cling to it with all his might through whatever may come his way. He couldn't bend or waver for anyone or anything... he had to be steadfast. Sort of. But not straightaway, since he had some leniency in the early stages of this whole ordeal.

He abandons the mutating thought quickly, more enticed by the thought of sleep than that of another mental bout, and instead tries to cover his thoughts and the city buzz with something more enjoyable and sleep-inducing than the murky prospects of his future. Something on the radio catches his ear as he slowly drifts off - _Let It Be_, sounding at odds with all the odds of a mobile and virulent urban space. As it weakly reaches his mind, off key and clicking and fading out, he calls to mind a phrase that sums up his feelings and lack thereof. "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."

He finds no solace in sleep, plagued nightlong by shallow dreams and badly tuned dirging courtesy of a black-eyed and spectral John Lennon.


End file.
